


The Singing Jacks

by JQ (musicmillennia)



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Cemetery, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/F, Fluff, Halloween, Hence the title, Jack-o'-lanterns, Magic, Magic Brooms, Witches, cause why not, halloween party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 13:20:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7978141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/JQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Witches love having fun on Halloween.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Singing Jacks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prouvairablehulk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairablehulk/gifts), [languageismymistress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/languageismymistress/gifts).
  * Inspired by [This Gorgeous Photoset](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/227656) by The Even More Gorgeous Scarlet. 



> So I hope this doesn't offend any actual witches. I wanted to have some fun with it, but I also tried to throw in some elements of, y'know, actual witchcraft.
> 
> Also, there are like, four versions of Witch Goldennews that I came up with. This is probably not gonna be the last one that I post. And it's all prouvairablehulk's fault for going onto The Bae's photoset and asking where the fic was.
> 
> Also. SURPRISE, ROYAL WARD.

Every year, witches gather in Central City’s Angelus Cemetery for Halloween. Not that they regularly commune there—they just want to freak people out.

They carry brooms on their shoulders, jack-o’-lanterns in their hands, wine bottles with labels plastered on them like _WITCHES’ BREW_ or _ENTRAILS OF A MAN_. A few more bring covered baskets, decorated in such a way that gives the impression they’re carrying body parts of dead animals and spider webs by the dozen. Really they’re just bringing pumpkin pie, candy, drinks, or whatever else that was listed in the group email. As a final touch, they break out their best autumn clothes, use their magic to make them look decrepit, and don dark hooded cloaks or pointed hats. Costumes are optional, but strongly encouraged for the contest.

After all, where’s the harm in a little scare?

For her part, Iris goes for casual: flat-heeled knee-high boots, a dark red skirt, a white turtleneck, and an open red and brown plaid poncho with the softest sleeves in the world. She brings a basket of her dad’s pumpkin pie and cider, along with a few candles and her wand. Like every year, she grabs a hat with a curled point, soft crimson wrapped in dark earth brown, with a fake magenta bearded iris.

Iris checks herself one last time in the mirror. After a quick adjustment on the faux monkey paws and lizard tails on the brim, she puts her picnic basket on her elbow. Satisfied, she grabs her sleek silver pen from her desk.

As she leaves her building, she shoots her dad a thank-you text for helping her with the food. Once she reaches the sidewalk, she uncaps her pen.

People screech as a chrome broom glides into existence. Iris merely smiles at them as she puts one foot in a tough flexible stirrup, tying her basket on one of the four pairs of dark straps poking out like shoelaces from the broom’s neck.

The second she’s situated on the long dark seat, Iris is off.

She makes sure to yell to the populace below, “Happy Halloween!”

 

The few trees dotted around the cemetery fence hum a pleasant greeting when Iris touches their bark. After the rough workday she had, she can’t help breathing a sigh a relief at the warm tingles soothing her nerves.

“Hey there, pretty lady.”

Relief soars into joy.

“Witches are this way.”

Iris spins on her toes. Her teasing smile is already in place. “And what do you think _you’re_ doing here?”

Draped in a cloak of shimmering ebony, Lisa looks like she’s gliding as she walks towards her. Only her painted red lips are visible; Iris half wants to kiss them, half wants to just watch them move.

The corner of those lips quirk. “Well, I’ve only ever caused harm in self-defense.”

“Oh, of course,” Iris replies, taking the final two paces between them.

Lisa lets her lift her hood. Iris keeps her hands entwined around the back of her neck.

“Happy Halloween,” she murmurs.

“Hope you brought your cider,” Lisa says.

 

The clouds stay stubbornly black, but most of the witches don’t mind. Moon is still there, after all, and the darkness makes for a wonderful Halloween atmosphere.

Lit jack-o’-lanterns and candles are set on or around graves, others made to levitate. Some pumpkins with shaved stems balance refreshments on their heads, but Iris’ favorites are without a doubt Linda’s Singing Jacks: their a capella is on point no matter what’s on their heads.

After spending some time crafting a charm with her friend, she finds Lisa again with a bottle of _MAN BLOOD_ under a particularly gnarled tree. She’s using her cloak as a blanket.

Iris takes her in. Her gold heels glimmer in the candlelight, but they’re outdone by the coquettish gleam in her pale eyes and red wine wetting her already crimson lips. Her bat choker complements her fair neck, dark jeans and lace corset jacket only adding to her ghostly appearance. Yet she’s warm when Iris presses against her, teeming with life as she tastes wine in her mouth.

“You’re not supposed to chug wine,” Iris reminds her.

Lisa scoffs. “Who do you think I am, dear?” She takes a savory swig to prove her point, even though Iris caught her chugging seconds ago.

The Singing Jacks swing into The Monster Mash. The tall pumpkin nearest Iris and Lisa, leaning on the grave of a rich guy, sways on its base with Boris’ voice. Witches who aren’t practicing spells or readying their rituals cheer.

Lisa peers at Iris through her eyelashes. “Care to dance, sweetie?”

Iris puts on an exaggerated pout. “But I just sat down!”

Lisa pounds the cork back into her bottle and hauls Iris to her feet. The lights nearest them seem to gain an extra bounce as they spin each other around.

 

After their dance, they shove pumpkin pie in each other’s faces and toast the autumn with full glasses of cider reheated by Lisa’s magic. Iris weaves a few leaves into Lisa’s hair while letting her groan about her brother’s continued forceful ignorance of what he could get with Mick Rory, even though Iris doesn’t want to know anything about the love lives of Captain Cold and Heat Wave, no matter what their relation is to her newly-minted girlfriend.

Once Lisa takes about fifteen pictures of her hair, she presents a poppet to Iris.

“Promotes serenity,” she says, more clipped and matter-of-fact. She doesn’t give gifts like this often.

Iris kisses the poppet’s yarn head. The poor thing looks like a mass of bad stitching and awkward half-present smiles. She can’t stop grinning at it.

“It’s perfect,” she whispers. “Wow, my gift sucks now.”

Lisa perks up immediately. “ _Gift_? Why darling, you shouldn’t have.”

A predator’s glee widens her eyes the second Iris presents the Cookies and Cream Hershey’s. Personally she’s an Almond kind of girl; they both think the other is a heathen for their favorite.

Lisa’s head plops onto Iris’ lap. She breaks off half of her candy bar, the rest of which Iris knows she’ll devour later. Leonard doesn’t like Cookies and Cream much, but he’ll hide it just to piss her off, so she’s gotta eat it quick when she goes home.

Iris leans against the tree. Lisa’s hair and its cacophony of leaves splay across her legs. It tickles her if she makes a small movement. Lisa herself eats her candy like an excited chipmunk.

After a time, Iris traces a few leaves. Their vibrancy returns in the form of dancing veins and swirls of color. Lisa, feeling the tingles of magic, can’t help giggling quietly as it teases the back of her head. Iris laughs with her.

This is such a perfect—

“What is _that_?!”

Lisa propels back up. When she sees what everyone’s staring at, however, she bursts into her best cackle.

“You must be new,” she says in between bouts.

Her nonchalance eases the crowd a bit, though most of the witches still regard the newbie’s Oujia board with guarded suspicion. The poor girl looks terrified, a new kid in a class already broken in.

Iris decides to make a gentler approach. Carefully avoiding contact with the board, she approaches the girl and gives her a soft smile.

“I’m Iris,” she says, “what’s your name?”

“A-Abby,” the girl manages to squeak. The rest comes out in a rush: “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” Iris quietly interrupts. “It’s okay. It’s not even opened, right?”

Abby whispers through unmoving lips, “Right.”

Many of the witches relax.

“Listen, Abby,” Iris says, “it’s not good to mess with spirits like that. Especially not tonight, and not in their resting place. That’s like barging into a stranger’s house with a marching band at two in the morning. If any of them are going to come out tonight, we’ll greet them with our circles closed.”

“…oh.”

Iris nods to the gates. “Why don’t we get rid of this, and you can have some of my dad’s cider? He’s scary good at it. And pay no attention to Lisa,” she loudly adds, “she just likes to cause trouble.”

“Guilty,” Lisa drawls. That earns a few nervous laughs, and a tiny smile from Abby.

Iris pats the girl’s back. “Come on.”

 

Twenty minutes to midnight, the Oujia board is dealt with and Iris can feel how thin the veil is becoming. The sensation affects the very air she breathes; Lisa’s steady presence under her is one of the only things keeping her from getting disoriented.

She’s lying on Lisa’s stomach this time, hat discarded. Lisa herself is stretched out on the ground too, casting a few minor spells that are more flashy shows than anything. They talk some more, but their words fade quickly as midnight draws closer.

At last, the clock strikes.

Slowly, small shadows of wisps start to move above their heads. They’ll be fully materialized by the witching hour.

For now, the gathering bids welcome even while they discreetly make sure their protection charms and wards are in place.

 

At 3 o’clock sharp, Lisa audibly gasps.

Then, swallowing, she pushes herself to her feet and offers Iris her hand.

“Iris,” she says, “come meet my mom.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know the ending sucks I'm so sorry I just don't know how to end fics without rushing them AHM SORRY
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
